Snow
by Lynn Heartnet
Summary: John grows concerned about Sherlock's health when he discovers the detective's dangerous cocaine addiction. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

Pale thin fingers hovered for an instant over the windowsill, for a moment their owner doubted his strength and they retreated back into the long sleeve from which they had originated. Then they returned and clamped themselves to the window, slowly commanding the glass to slide upwards. The soft rain was eager to fall where it had, until now, been dry. It dived through the open window with a solid determination to die on the wooden floorboards.

The owner of the spidery hands hovered before the window, dressed in a worn bathrobe which clung to his thin frame. With a movement of his hand his white wrist came free of its sleeve and revealed a battlefield of puncture marks. Thin lips pursed, as ghostly hands reached for a needle. There was a moment of pain, and then as the drug took effect, the eyelids of Sherlock Holmes fluttered in a moment of bliss.

After a few moments of breathing and feeling the pure elation, he placed the syringe back into it's hiding place nestled into the one place John wouldn't bother looking: the case for his Stradivarius. The violin itself had been moved to a perch in Sherlock's bedroom and the case had become somewhat of a well disguised cocaine store. Where the polished wood once sat was now filled with bottles and a syringe carefully wrapped in cloth. Sherlock fumbled with the clasps, his fingers twitching ever so slightly enough to make it difficult. Where once there was boredom and lethargy there was now excitement, an endless supply of energy.

Sherlock's sensitive ears picked up the sound of John's slight limp as he came up the stairs. He slid the violin case off to one side next to a bookshelf where it would go unnoticed and then lay himself on the couch with his eyes shut and his fingertips pressed against each other in his usual pose of boredom. He looked completely innocent when John opened the door.

"No, no don't help me. I'll just carry in all the groceries as usual." John said with an air of irritation as he walked into the apartment laden with plastic bags. A grunt was the only acknowledgement that Sherlock gave.

"Have you been laying there all day? You were in that exact pose when I left this morning." John sighed. "You really should get out more."

"Yes, mum." Sherlock smirked.

"I'd suggest a girlfriend but we all know that's impossible." John quipped while putting groceries away. To his credit he managed to slide a gallon of milk past a Ziploc bag full of fingers without batting an eyelash.

"I could say the same for you." Sherlock opened his eyes and pushed himself upwards into a sitting position. He kept his movements smooth so as not to betray the frantic twitching of his muscles and the rapid heartbeat.

"I don't have time for a girlfriend. I've got to babysit you." John grinned.

"Here I thought that was Mycroft's job." Sherlock sighed and pulled his knees up under his chin. "Any word from Lestrade?"

"No. Not since the last time you texted and asked me five minutes ago."

"Pity."

"Only you would think its a pity that its been a relatively crime free day." John gathered up the empty grocery bags and shoved them in the trash can before walking over to the couch and plopping down next to Sherlock's feet.

"It's more than a pity. It's damned arduous." Sherlock hissed, lips drawing themselves into a pout and eyes narrowing into a glare. John found himself staring at those eyes. Something just wasn't quite right about those eyes.

"Sherlock...I think your pupils are dilated." He murmured, leaning forward to better see his friend's eyes.

"I think you tried to hit on the checkout girl again and got snubbed. Also you're still a bit hungover from drinking with Stamford last night and that's probably what made you so uncaring about how you looked this morning that you would put on the same shirt that you wore yesterday, not to mention the clumsiness. You spilled coffee on yourself this morning and stubbed your toe on the end-table." Sherlock huffed. His tirade had the exact effect he had wanted, John glared and pulled away from Sherlock.

"I was just concerned. No need to be a smartass." He replied gruffly.

"Well you pried into my personal life so I pried into yours, not that you're really doing a good job of hiding anything." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I get it, you're very clever, well done!" John stood and stalked out of the room with an offended air. Sherlock glanced after him and then pushed his legs back out in front of him. He still had a few minutes of high left and he was going to enjoy them. The cocaine was still working its way through his system, increasing his heart rate. There was a pleasant feeling of superiority that began as a warmth in his chest and migrated into his head to become a faint buzzing at the base of his skull.

Sherlock closed his eyes and grinned.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke up in the middle of the night.

There was no reason for it, no noise awoke him, and luckily a nightmare was not the cause either. He just found himself lying awake and staring at the ceiling. After a few minutes he sighed and pushed himself out of bed, he was restless and might as well find something to do instead of just sitting there staring.

It was when he was descending the stairs that he heard the shattering of glass. He rushed down the stairs, expecting to see Sherlock cleaning up the sad remains of a dropped beaker, instead his eyes fell upon the empty living room.

_Where did the sound come from...?_ he thought. His eyes fell on the door of Sherlock's bedroom. Dare he go check?

He crept towards the door trying not to make any noise, the door was ajar and faint light could be seen streaming out. John peered in through the crack. He didn't see anything at first, but as he peeked he made out a pale thin arm stretched out across the floor.

"Sherlock?" He pushed the door open abandoning stealth in favor of concern. The thin man lay sprawled on the floor, hyperventilating, his eyes shut and his hand curled around something. John saw blood leaking from his hand which held bits of broken glass, where they glass had come from he had no idea.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John helped Sherlock to sit up, and began to examine him for further damage. He had known Sherlock to collapse before whether it was from lack of sleep or malnutrition or just his excitable nature, but it never hurt to check.

Sherlock panted, and tried to conceal the broken glass in his hand, with the other hand he gently pushed John away.

"I'm fine." he said without much conviction.

"Yeah sure, sit still." John replied, unconvinced. His eyes fell on Sherlock's bleeding hand. "What is that anyway?" It didn't take much force to pry the glass from Sherlock's thin fingers and it didn't take much deduction to put two and two together.

"Sherlock...why do you have a syringe?" John breathed. Sherlock stared into space, his eyes were dark and distracted. He pursed his lips but gave no explanation.

"Sherlock." John said with a bit more force and a bit more anger. "Explain yourself."

Sherlock's head snapped up, his eyes were furious.

"Get out of my room." He spat, and with a new found strength he stood and pushed John from his room before locking the door. John stood outside the door, banished. He balled his hand into a fist and slammed it against the wall. Then he took a few deep breaths. He'd like to pretend that it wasn't what it looked like but he couldn't. It would be idiotic to ignore plain evidence. He felt a knot forming in his stomach, as a doctor and friend he felt obligated to find out what was going on but was it really his place to intrude on Sherlock's privacy? It was his life...

John shook his head, it was best to leave such thoughts until morning when his brain was less tired. He trudged up the stairs and collapsed into bed with his head full of thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

Come morning they both decided not to allude to the last night. John drank his tea in silence and didn't say a word when Sherlock shuffled into the room looking like a ghost. As usual Sherlock chose to ignore the basic human ritual of breakfast and instead flopped onto the couch with a deep sigh. It didn't take a detective to notice the definite change in Sherlock. He'd always been rather pale and thin, but he seemed even more so, if that was even possible. It gave him a sharp look, as though his bones could cut through his skin. It was his eyes that haunted John the most. The eyes that were normally so full of light and curious energy were now swiveling tiredly about, taking in the contents of the room with no particular reason.

The two of them might have sat there all day, John observing Sherlock and Sherlock observing nothing, if Sherlock's phone hadn't gone off. The lanky detective pulled his phone out of his bathrobe pocket and rolled his eyes as he read the text.

"Lestrade needs me. He didn't give any details about the case which means it's probably something so simple I could solve it in ten seconds. He likes to hold off being embarrassed as long as possible." Sherlock stood and strode into his room without the energy that usually accompanied a summons by Lestrade. He returned shortly dressed, clearly he had made no attempt to tame his wild black curls but that was normal enough.

"I should be back shortly. No need to come along this time, it should take all of a minute."

"Alright. Try not to be too..." John sighed. "Don't be yourself?"

"Wouldn't dream of it." Sherlock smirked, but the smirk didn't meet his eyes which still dozed within his skull. Then he was gone like a fleeting gust of wind. For a few seconds John didn't dare to move, he held his breath and waited until he couldn't hear Sherlock's footsteps anymore. Then he rushed into his flatmate's bedroom. This was an opportunity he couldn't pass up. Sherlock hardly ever left the apartment except for casework, so if he was going to search his room it was now or never.

Sherlock's room was a strange mix of clean and disorganized, he had a way of sorting his piles of junk that made it appear a little less dirty than it actually was. It was certainly better than the living room. John remembered when the detective began affixing their mail to the mantle with a jackknife. He'd put a stop to that immediately.

"Alright...think like Sherlock. Where would he hide something like..." John trailed off. He couldn't ignore the obvious anymore. He'd heard whispers of words like "danger night", and the "drug raid" that occurred way back when he had first met Sherlock was a not too subtle hint. People made it quite clear that Sherlock dabbled in illicit substances, it was just too easy to forget it seeing as John had never witnessed him taking them.

He began searching through the mess trying his hardest not to disturb anything, knowing that Sherlock would know if even the smallest paper was out of place. After so many failed attempts John gave up in frustration. That was when his eyes landed on the case for Sherlock's Stradivarius.

Come to think of it, wasn't the violin out in the living room leaning against the couch? So what was in the case? John crept towards the case as if it was an animal he didn't wish to frighten, and as he popped the latches he felt a yanking on his heartstrings.

"Oh Sherlock..." The case for the detectives most prized possession re-purposed for...for this! John sank back to sit on the floor. Now that he had confirmation, he knew he couldn't sit idly and make excuses about how it was Sherlock's private life and he couldn't interfere. As a doctor and a friend, it wouldn't be right.

He'd have to get rid of it all.


	4. Chapter 4

John was checking his email when the torrent began.

At first it was just the sounds coming from the other room, the muttered curses and fumbling. Then it exploded as the pale whirlwind came rushing into the room wearing a frantic nervousness and an accusing glare.

"Where. Is. It?" Sherlock spat each word like venom and his eyes darted back and forth in a mix of anger and fear.

"Where is what?" John's mouth was too dry, he knew he wasn't playing innocent nearly convincingly enough.

"Damn you, you mindless twit." Sherlock growled. "Don't sit there pretending not to know what I'm saying I know you got rid of it."

That comment hurt. John put up with people calling him idiotic daily, it was one of the many wonderful things that came with following Sherlock around all day. Most of their fanbase commented on the "slow-witted sidekick" rather cruelly.

"Sherlock...calm down. You aren't yourse-"

"Don't tell me what to do. I'm fine, or at least I was until you started poking about in my personal affairs!" Sherlock didn't even let John finish, he paced the room wringing his hands and occasionally even yanking nervously at strands of his hair.

"I was worried about you, Sherlock." John whimpered pathetically, hating the sound of his own voice. He could always play the authoritative soldier, yet here he was sniveling because his friend threw a few insults his way.

"Traitor. Idiot!" Sherlock snarled, and with a burst of energy he had his coat on and was out the door. John leapt up to follow him, only to have the door slammed in his face. He was so stunned he didn't think to open the door, and by the time he had remembered how to use a doorknob Sherlock had disappeared into the night, and John knew he was off to find more of this drug that held him so. He knew it and he felt helpless to stop it. John sat on the stairs and sighed. What could he do except wait for him to come home, try to find the new supply and get rid of it the way he did the first? Only to have the same reaction. Sherlock, calling him a traitor and an idiot.

Why did that sting so much worse when he said it? Yet that pain paled in comparison to the pain of seeing his friend in this tortured state. That face so thin and beaten, and yet still so beautiful with bright eyes like flowers resting in the snow.

John shook his head and blushed. Now that thought was confusing and uncalled for. He was worried for his friend. His _friend._ Even so he found himself thinking about Sherlock's pale skin and the sharp angles of his body, found himself wondering if that beautiful form was just as white and angular under the clothes...

John lay his head against the wall, he could feel himself blushing even if he denied it. He pushed the thoughts away. He could have an emotional crisis later, after Sherlock was healthy.

When Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street he found John dozing on the stairs. His face was creased with lines of concern, even in sleep he was worrying. Sherlock scowled down at the face, his mind too clouded to think about the cause for that worry. The cause that was him. For a moment he entertained the notion of leaving him there all night. Then he found himself pulling off his coat and draping it over the sleeping doctor, scooping John into his arms and carrying him back up the stairs. He dropped him on the couch, still too angry with him to bother taking him to bed.

Besides, his mind was preoccupied with other things.

Cocaine was his preferred of any drug he had ever tried in his lifetime. Cigarettes were all well and good when it came to addiction but cocaine brought energy to a mind burdened by boredom. He'd discovered the drug in his youth, and experimented with it liberally. Though his use of it fluctuated over time, it held him as strongly now as it did back then when every day was a drug induced blur. Even now his fingers itched to dissolve the powder in water, to take it into himself and feel that surge of power. That blessed release that could distract him so long as he kept on taking it.

John murmured something in his sleep and turned over, as he did he took Sherlock's coat in hand and pulled it close to his face. Perhaps he could smell Sherlock's scent on the coat, because the worried look on his face vanished and melted into a soft smile. Sherlock watched the sleeping doctor for a moment, in fact for more than a moment. He found himself sitting in the armchair adjacent to the couch and folding his hands under his chin he sat there for some time watching John's slumber. For a moment the drug was all but forgotten, he contented himself with watching the rise and fall of John's chest and delighting in the way John clutched at his coat. Why this made him happy he did not know.

After fifteen minutes the detective rose and departed for his room, ready for another fix.


	5. Chapter 5

John was confused to find himself on the couch that morning, he didn't remember falling asleep much less going back up to the flat. Last thing he remembered he was waiting for Sherlock to come home. When he sat up he realized he had a coat draped over him, and not just any coat but Sherlock's. Sherlock barely let people so much as look funny at this coat let alone wear or sleep cuddling it, so how did he have it?

Suddenly it registered in John's sleepy mind that if Sherlock's coat was here then Sherlock must be here too. Clutching the coat around him, and unsure of why he did so, he clambered off the couch and tiptoed over to Sherlock's room to listen closely at the door. He could hear the quiet steady breathing of sleep on the other side of the door and he breathed a sigh of relief. At least he made it home alright, no matter what he accomplished last night.

John found himself clutching the coat closer to him as he stood there silently waiting outside Sherlock's door. He could smell Sherlock's scent on the coat, a scent he could only describe as cigarette smoke and lavender. John chuckled, remembering a time when getting Sherlock to quit smoking was his only problem. The detective had pouted like a child and thrown tantrums but he'd never had a reaction like the one John had witnessed last night. Thinking back on the crazed eyes and harsh tone made John cringe. If it had been anyone else he could have just ignored it or fought back but coming from Sherlock the man he...

It hurt a whole lot more.

John began a vigil at Sherlock's door, sitting cross legged and leaning against the wall. He dozed there, holding the coat tightly around him, until he heard sounds of movement from inside the bedroom. Then Sherlock himself flung open the door and stepped outside. The pale man tilted his head like an animal listening to something and then turned towards John. John registered a faint smile on the detectives face that quickly faded.

"Morning." Sherlock commented flatly.

"Good morning." John's voice was too nervous, he winced slightly on hearing it.

"Interesting sleeping arrangement." Sherlock noted, raising an eyebrow and scanning John with his watchful eyes. John shook his head.

"Well it's better than the stairs." John replied, watching Sherlock for a reaction. Sherlock looked at his feet and then back up at John.

"You looked cold." He said simply and turned on his heel towards the kitchen.

"That's why you gave me your coat?" John called after him. Sherlock froze and turned his head slightly, not saying anything, just watching. John found himself staring, admiring the beauty in Sherlock's porcelain skin and bright cunning eyes.

"You were cold so I gave you a coat. Very perceptive John." Sherlock smirked. Then he took a long stride forward until his face and John's were barely inches apart. "If you want to keep clinging to it like a security blanket, by all means." His smirk mingled with his whisper, then he walked off into the kitchen leaving John dumbstruck. His heart was pounding, the way it pounded when he pulled out his gun or when he was staring down the barrel of somebody else's. The kind of heartbeat that meant both danger and an addictive thrill. The only danger he could think of would be Sherlock inches from his face like a cobra rearing up and ready to bite or like a lover ready to lean in and steal a kiss...

"Alright. Ignoring that last thought..." John sighed to himself and pulled off the coat as quick as possible before tossing it onto the coat hanger.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock's hands were shaking, it made it hard to keep the syringe straight. Hell, it made it hard to keep his mind straight. It had been three days since John had thrown out his old supply, since then his flatmate hadn't made a move against him. Sherlock's fevered brain thought that maybe he'd scared John away. He only paid this thought a fleeting glance, in fact all his thoughts seemed to float by quickly and when he tried to stop and think it felt like dipping his hands into a massive river and trying to stop the current. Eventually he just let himself drift in the water, and didn't even spare the thought of shame at what he had done to his mind, his greatest tool...

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and immediately met with John's. The look on the doctor's face said anger but his eyes said concern.

"...Yes?" Sherlock pushed himself up so that he was in a sitting position on the bed.

"Here. Drink." John thrust a glass of water into Sherlock's hands and then proceeded to take the detective's pulse. "I figured you'd be a bit dehydrated, you haven't been out of your room since Monday." John snipped, clearly not pleased. "And you'll need to eat something too later."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sipped meagerly from the water before placing the cup on his nightstand. He then pulled his knees up to his chest and placed his chin on his knees, averting his eyes from John's gaze.

"...I think we need to talk." John began, and though Sherlock's eyes seemed half closed John knew that he had his full attention. "I know that you don't think it's important but I do. I also know when I'm done talking you're going to have some sarcastic remark to throw in my face to make me look like an idiot, but as a doctor and someone who cares about you I'm sick of seeing you like this."

"Oh dear me, an intervention." Sherlock put caustic feeling into those words.

"See there's that sarcastic remark. Sherlock, I'll tell you right now the one thing that could make you quit. You're wasting your brain. That knowledge that you're so proud of, I can't see you ever being able to brag about it again if you keep up like this because your drug robs you of your mental capabilities."

Sherlock sat quietly listening, John could see an array of emotions playing out on his face.

"You can't deny it either, even in this drugged state you know that you're getting more and more paranoid and that you couldn't tell a victim from a villain anymore."

"I know..."

John stopped, Sherlock's voice sounded so quiet and defeated. He leaned closer..

"What?" he asked, seeking confirmation of what he had heard quite clearly the first time.

"I said I know." Sherlock turned his eyes on John, and the doctor shuddered to see the dilated pupils and the thin face that spoke of illness. "And I can't stop."

"You could. Tell me where you're keeping it and I'll get rid of it for you." John coaxed as if talking to a child. Sherlock chewed on his lower lip for a moment, adding to that image of a child. He sat there considering it and then sighed and pointed to a heavy looking dictionary sitting on a pile of papers some ways away across the floor.

"Open that."

John opened the cover and if it hadn't been drugs nestled in that book he would have laughed at the drama of it all. Only Sherlock Holmes would hollow out a book to hide something in it, only the master of presentation himself.

"I'll get rid of them. Then we can focus on recovery, okay?" John said moving slowly as if one movement could spook the pale man.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes seeming distant and full of daydreams. John paused, and then found himself walking up to Sherlock and staring down at that snow white face. Maybe it was because Sherlock looked so vulnerable sitting there in his pajamas and bathrobe with his eyes staring at the ground or maybe it was because he was so relieved that Sherlock wasn't putting up a fight, for whatever reason John leaned down and kissed Sherlock on the forehead.

The movement seemed so natural that neither man thought to question it until John blushed, and making a grab for the deceptive dictionary he fled from the bedroom leaving Sherlock pondering the motion.


	7. Chapter 7

They didn't talk about "the incident" as John referred to it, and he was thankful that Sherlock had decided not to allude to his slip up. He couldn't believe he'd had his lips on Sherlock Holmes!

Still, that didn't mean that he wasn't thinking about doing it again. He berated himself for doing so as Sherlock was currently a patient under his care, and he should be more concerned about his health and recovery than his dark curly hair that framed his beautiful pale face.

Sherlock must not have found "the incident" to be disturbing or strange because he made no move to avoid John. In fact he seemed to move closer to him. One night while Sherlock was gripped in the pain of withdrawal he grabbed John's hand and refused to let go all night. When John woke up he was laying in Sherlock's bed while the detective slept, his head placed on top of the hand he had claimed.

John watched the pale man breathe in and out regularly and found himself entranced by that simplest of things. It was only when he realized that he was watching Sherlock sleep that he shook his head and pulled himself out of the bed. He didn't wake Sherlock as he went. Even though Sherlock very very rarely slept, when he did sleep he could hardly be woken by an explosion.

John stared down at his hand as though he could see some sign of Sherlock there. He could still feel the heat of Sherlock's cheek, and he realized that he wanted nothing more than to climb back into the bed and press his forehead against Sherlock's so he could feel his heat again.


	8. Chapter 8

John had worried for Sherlock a lot while the detective had been using his preferred drug, but he worried even more now as the symptoms of withdrawal made themselves evident. Sherlock spent most of the day holed up in his room sleeping or brooding, normally this wasn't out of the normal but this sort of brooding lacked all of the childish attitude it normally did. It made him seem dead and lifeless. John could barely coax a disinterested grunt out of the man when he tried to talk to him, and he hung about 221B like a shadow.

The worst part was when his hands would twitch excitedly, and John knew that he was craving cocaine. He kept a close eye on his friend, to make sure he didn't fall back into addiction.

On one such occasion Sherlock was dozing on the couch and John was glancing up from his book every so often to check on him. Well every so often meaning he had read the same sentence over and over again and had spent most of his time staring at Sherlock. The detective's face was pained, he was probably caught in the grasp of the kind of nightmare characteristic of cocaine withdrawal. Normally John couldn't imagine Sherlock being bothered by something like a nightmare, but when Sherlock let out a small moan John could imagine it quite clearly.

With steps he didn't remember taking he found himself next to the couch, he knelt down and ran a hand through Sherlock's hair.

"It's okay. I'm here." he whispered, feeling a bit stupid as he comforted Sherlock as he might comfort a small child. The sleeping man grimaced, and John wrapped him in his arms. Surely he could comfort Sherlock and then get out of this situation before he woke up. After all if Sherlock woke up being embraced by his clearly-just-a-friend flatmate he'd surely have something sarcastic to say about it.

Suddenly John felt Sherlock shift, and his heart stopped when he realized the detective was embracing him back. Sherlock nuzzled against John's neck with a pleased sound and John's skin felt electric. Surely Sherlock didn't know what he was doing, he was asleep he was just responding unconsciously.

"A rather pleasant awakening." Sherlock's voice was a deep rumble resonating in John's ear, his warm breath tickling the back of his neck.

John started, pushing Sherlock away and jumping back nearly falling over. Sherlock's near dead eyes took on a look of amusement that brought the life back into them.

John sat there, gaping and blushing for a moment before Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed himself up into a seated position with some effort.

"There was no need for a violent reaction." he murmured.

"Well...I don't know." John managed to say, not exactly sure what it was he didn't know.

"Will you do it again?" Sherlock asked.

"Excuse me?" John blinked, unsure of what Sherlock was asking.

"Come back over here." Sherlock reached out and took John's hand, gesturing him over. John managed to get his arms around Sherlock again without his face turning red, and Sherlock let his head sink onto John's shoulder. Somewhere in the back of his mind John noticed how thin Sherlock was but mostly he was focusing on how good he smelled.

"I want to sleep like this." Sherlock murmured softly, managing to coax John onto the couch with him. John arranged them so that Sherlock could lay his head on John's chest, and then he worked up the courage to lay a kiss on Sherlock's temple.

"Alright." he replied.

"And you think _I'm_ ignorant. Stop blushing already, I love you too John."


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock was practically leaning out the window when John stepped into the living room. Smoke was curling out of his lips and fleeing into the London air. John had to give him credit, he was trying not to offend John's olfactory senses and doctor's sense of well being. Besides, John really didn't have the heart to stop him from smoking just yet, he'd known many patients who had just quit a major substance to fall to smoking, alcoholics and the like. In the future he'd be confiscating Sherlock's cigarettes but for now he was content to see the detective mostly healthy and content.

"Oi, try not to fall out." He jested, his words twisted with a yawn. The only sign he got that Sherlock heard him was a half smirk playing at the corners of the pale man's lips.

John made his way to the kitchen to start on the tea, seconds later there was hot smoky breath against his ear.

"You smell like an ashtray." John elbowed Sherlock softly away but Sherlock persisted, chuckling and wrapping his arms around John's waist.

"Make a cup for me." Sherlock demanded with his usual lack of manners, and John complied with his usual amount of patience. They were soon entwined on the couch with their mugs steaming on the table next to them.

That was their routine now, John fancied himself a replacement for Sherlock's usual pastimes, shooting the wall and etc. He often found the detective curling up in his arms and settling back to think. There was something almost catlike about it, especially when you realize that both cats and Sherlock have a habit of wanting attention only when you're in the middle of doing something.

Things had returned to normal. Well as normal as their life could be. The only truly strange incident happened later that same day, after a rather frustrating phone call with Harry. John stormed back into the apartment, grumbling. Sherlock pretended not to notice, not even looking up from his book.

"Unbelievable." John sighed, collapsing onto the couch and tossing his phone onto the table. "I'm not supposed to be her bloody babysitter." He closed his eyes and just lay there for a bit, he was so focused on his own thoughts that he didn't notice when Sherlock quietly closed his book and stalked over to the side of the couch.

"John."

"Mmm? What is it?" John sighed.

He felt Sherlock's lips brush against his forehead and travel down towards his ear where he whispered: "John, you are invaluable to me."

John blinked, not sure if he should be flattered or confused.

"Thank you." The detective nodded as if this summed everything up, and it took the doctor a moment to realize what he was being thanked for, the nightmare of the past few days had seemingly vanished from his mind already. He was surprised enough already to hear Sherlock...the infamous Sherlock Holmes saying thank you, but hearing him own up to something that had left him vulnerable was even more amazing.

"Idiot. It's my job to look after you. Who else would put up with you?" John laughed, still bewildered. Sherlock smirked and rolled his eyes.

"No one. Just you."


End file.
